1
Burnt Harbor, Maine
1955
Margreete walked barefoot down the hallway to the stairs as the floorboards muttered. “Move,” she said to the cat. Downstairs in the kitchen, she rummaged around in the refrigerator for his food and spooned some bacon drippings into a frying pan to fortify the bread crusts she’d saved for the crows.
As the flames licked around the edges of the pan, she went back upstairs and shuffled into her slippers. On the landing was a mouse that Romeo had partially eaten in the night. She bent over the headless body, the gory truncated neck, the tiny pink feet shriveled up like dried weeds. The cat joined her and nudged the carcass with a paw. “Why did you kill it?” she said. “It just wanted to live its life.”
Her feet were still cold, and she turned on the hot-water faucet in the bathroom and watched the steam rise and the small bubbles gather on the bottom of the tub. Scooping water into her palm, she wet her lips and was about to undress and climb in when she smelled something burning.
She ran downstairs and found a sheet of flames engulfing the stove. Before she knew it, her sweater was burning, and fire was leaping to the wallpaper to the ceiling to the beams holding up the roof. She filled a saucepan with water and dumped it across the top of the stove and threw what remained at the wall. Then ran out into the yard, stripped off her sweater, and rolled in the snow.
Across the field, Mr. Wootton, who’d just finished milking his cows, saw smoke, jumped into his car, and hurried down the road and into the driveway. “I’m all right, I’m all right,” Margreete said, pushing him away.
Black smoke billowed out the open door, and Mr. Wootton ran inside and called the volunteer fire department while Margreete dragged a hose out of the garden shed through the mudroom and into the kitchen. The flames leapt higher, but the hose didn’t work—she’d brought both ends inside. She didn’t know how the firemen got there, but now they were everywhere. “Who are you?” she asked. More and more men came, nudging her out of the way into the living room. She stood in the doorway while the avalanche of water from the hoses knocked pictures off the walls.
By the time the blaze was brought under control, the kitchen was pretty much gone.
She watched as two of the volunteer firemen climbed into the town fire truck; the rest—all but one—got into their pickup trucks and sped away. Margreete stood in her singed nightgown and slippers, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. The kitchen window was clouded with soot, the stove was a sludge of water and grease, and the wallpaper, with its cheery red and yellow teapots, hung down in black strips. Two cupboards had fallen, bringing down most of her crockery and glasses and teacups. The clock had smashed on the floor.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” she said, looking at the fireman who’d stayed behind.
“No, ma’am, I know that. I’m sorry.… Do you remember me? I played basketball with your son Peter in school.”
She shook her head.
“You burned your hair,” he said.
Her hand reached up and came away with threads of black carbon. “My sweater burned, too. Synthetic crap. Wool wouldn’t have gone up like that. I threw it in the bushes. Who’d you say you were?”
“Terry. Terry Leroux.”
“Who did you say you were?”
He told her again, and offered to take her out to breakfast.
His forehead had streaks of ash across it. She saw that his eyes were very blue. Wide open, as though he still had his boy-eyes. He was wearing big black rubber galoshes.
“You have big boots.”
He turned his feet out slightly. “Regulation equipment.”
“I have to tell Liddie. You know Liddie? I’m not looking forward to calling her, I can tell you that. I have to clean up this mess before we go.”
“Your daughter would want you to get something to eat, Mrs. Hocking. I wouldn’t bother to tidy up in here. You’ll need a wrecking crew. How about if I get some clothes for you?”
“Not underwear. I don’t allow men in my underwear drawer.”
He went upstairs and came down with a pair of pants, a shirt, and a sweater draped over one arm. “There’s a dead mouse up there.”
She remembered now. Romeo had woken her, yowling like a jungle cat. She’d been dreaming, rocked in the bottom of a boat someone was rowing.
She took the clothes he offered and went into the living room and took off her nightgown next to the upright piano. “Don’t look!” she called. The fireman was picking up wreckage from the kitchen floor. “You brought me a pair of pants with a hole in the knee. Never mind. No one looks at old ladies.” When she was dressed, she reappeared in the doorway to the kitchen, weeping quietly.
“Don’t touch anything in here,” he said. “Everything’s hot. Are you hurt?”
“Only this.” She held out her arm and pointed to the inside of her wrist.
With a gloved hand, he opened the refrigerator door and dabbed butter on the burn.
“Shall I take you to the clinic?”
“No.”
“Someone will come and rebuild your kitchen, Mrs. Hocking. It’ll all come right in the end.”
“That’s what you think. You’re still young.”
He brought her coat and held it for her.
“I’m not a klepto … kleptomaniac. I didn’t mean to do that.”
He helped her into her boots. “Pyromaniac? I know you’re not.”
“Not one of those types.”
He took her elbow and led her toward his pickup. A sentinel crow clung to a branch and waited for its morning scraps, its black feathers lifting in a wind that coursed up from the bay. Small flecks of snow drifted down. The ground was already covered with a foot, blue tinges in the shadows where it had drifted.
He helped her up into the truck, closed the door for her, and came around the other side. As he turned the key and the engine started, she opened the passenger door and started to climb out. “My cat!”
“Don’t worry. Cats are good at taking care of themselves. Better shut the door now.”
She pulled it closed, and he backed out. She took in the smell of cigarettes and man stuff. She liked the litter. She liked men, period. She remembered once in New York City being on the arm of someone in the rain, a warm rain, and the lights shining through the water, fogged with beauty, like how she’d always imagined Paris.
The road was plowed smooth, heaped on the edges with fresh snow. The heater in the truck rattled, and she looked over at the fireman’s face, trying to place him.
“It’s March,” he said. “Almost spring.”
“Are you making conversation, or do you really believe that?”
He laughed. “Making conversation, I guess.” He glanced over at her, still smiling. “March always has its own ideas.”
Inside the café they sat in a booth, and Lillian, the owner, came out from the kitchen and said she’d already heard about the fire and was awful sorry. She had a large, kind face, a big bosom, short arms. Her grandson ran around, ducking under tables, racing in and out of the kitchen. Lillian poured coffee, and Margreete and the fireman both ordered the he-man breakfast: three eggs, home fries, sausages, bacon, toast.
“You’re not from around here, are you,” she said to the fireman.
“Five generations.”
“I’m only two.”
There was a clatter of dishes and buzz of voices, mostly male: ironworkers, fishermen, grandfathers needing to get out of the house.
“How’s your arm now?” he asked.
“Are you a doctor?”
He smiled. “An electrician.”
“Do you fix lightbulbs? I’ve got one out in the basement. It’s creepy down there, and I don’t dare fix it with the light out.”
“I could do that for you.”
The food arrived, and they began in silence. “That’s pretty spicy, you know,” he said as she picked up the hot sauce.
“I like hot.” She shook some on her eggs, pushed her hair behind her ears, and dug in.
“You’re doing yourself proud on that plate, Mrs. Hocking.”
“Mr. Hocking died. I’m Mrs. Bright again. I went back to Mrs. Bright.”
“I remember Mr. Bright. Irving was a good man. Do you have anyone to help you around your place now?”
“I miss Irving Bright. My daughter thinks I need help. She lives in the Midwest, I forget just where. I need to tell her what happened. I’m dreading it, I can tell you that.”
“You know, I used to be sweet on Liddie in high school, but she wasn’t interested.”
Margreete looked up from her plate at him. “She always was picky. You have nice eyes, but they’re kind of close together. Liddie thought close-together eyes were a sign of someone who wasn’t all that bright. Maybe that was why. She was looking for someone supersmart.”
He laughed. “That wouldn’t be me.”
“She’s married to a nice fellow. I don’t know how smart he is.”
“What’s your son Peter doing now?”
Copyright © 2021 by Eleanor Morse
